sation for you to make, Terry, just as if loyalties and
affections were ostrich-plumes and ermine to be worn or discarded with
the fashion."

"That's just what they do seem to have become since we've all stopped
fighting," she persisted. "And please don't look at me like that, Tabs,
as though you were my commanding-officer. I'm not trying to be a cynical
young person; I'm simply stating facts. Look at all the men for whom the
war was a social leg-up. They were plumbers and bank-clerks and dentists
in 1914; by the end of 1918 they were Majors and Colonels and
Brigadiers. They didn't know where the West End was till they got into
uniforms. Since then they've learnt the way into all the clubs and
fashionable hotels; they've spent money like water; they've been the
companions of men and women whom they couldn't have hoped to have met
unless the war had shaken us all out of our class-snobbishness. But now
that the war's ended, these men whom every one flattered for their
bravery and whose social failings they excused while there was fighting
to be done, have become worse snobs than ourselves. They've been
educated out of the class for which they were fitted. War was their
chance; it's ended, and now they have to go back to their humble jobs,
which are the only ones by which they can gain a livelihood. Worse
still, they've got to go back to their wives, who haven't shared their
grandeurs, but who've played the game by them, taking care of their
children and standing by the wash-tub. Some of them can't face up to the
change. Peace has turned the world up-side-down. We're walking on our
heads. You're just out of hospital, but you'll know what I mean when
you've been a week in London."

"But nothing of what you've been saying applies to Adair Easterday," he
objected. "He wasn't a profiteer in khaki; he wasn't even in khaki. He
made nothing; he lost nearly everything he had. Moreover, whatever
faults he may have, he's always been a thorough-bred--a stickler for
honor; the kind of chap who, if he had to sink, would go down with all
his colors flying. Where his wife is concerned, he's a lover-for-all-time
kind of fellow."

She shook her head obstinately. "He isn't now. He's standing on his head
like the rest of us."

"I'm certain you're mistaken." He paused, half-minded to let the matter
rest. He hated this contending. In the old days he and Terry had never
argued. He glanced at her; she was smiling in a sorry, amused fashion.